Italy

September 25, 2020September 25, 2020

Daily Dose of Europe: Ghiberti’s Bronze Doors

Some say that the cultural explosion called “the Renaissance” began precisely in the year 1401, with two bronze panels. They look simple, but they were the catalyst of an artistic revolution.

As America continues to suffer crisis upon crisis, it has never been more important to broaden our perspectives and learn about the people and places that shape our world. And for me, one of the great joys of travel is seeing art masterpieces in person. Learning the stories behind great art can shed new light on our lives today. Here’s one of my favorites.

Florence held a city-wide competition to find the best artist to create a set of bronze doors for the beloved Baptistery. That octagonal building in front of Florence’s main church was dear to the hearts of Florentines. It was the city’s oldest structure, nearly 1,000 years old, where venerable citizens from Dante to Machiavelli to the Medici were baptized.

All the great Florentine artists entered the contest. There was the promising young sculptor Donatello, the goldsmith Lorenzo Ghiberti, and the all-around Renaissance man, Filippo Brunelleschi. They were asked to submit their take on the Bible story of the Sacrifice of Isaac. This was the crucial moment when Abraham, obeying God’s orders, was about to kill his only son as a sacrifice.
The two finalists were Ghiberti and Brunelleschi. It was a tough call. Before reading on, look at each entry panel as if a critic. Decide which one you’d favor.

Brunelleschi (right), put the boy Isaac at center stage, creating a balanced composition. Ghiberti (left) focused on Abraham. Abraham’s face is intense. He pulls the knife back, ready to strike. But just then, the angel swoops in — coming straight out of the panel, right at you, like a 3-D movie — to save the boy in the nick of time. Now that’s drama.

The winner was — drum roll, please — Ghiberti.

That simple contest started a historic chain of events. Ghiberti made the Baptistery doors, which proved so successful that he was asked to make another set for another entrance. These were the famous Gates of Paradise that revolutionized the way Renaissance people saw the world around them.
Ghiberti added a whole new dimension to art — depth. In his Jacob and Esau panel, Ghiberti set the scene under a series of arches. The arches appear to recede into the distance, as do the floor tiles and banisters, creating a 3-D background for a realistic scene. The figures in the foreground stand and move like real people, telling the Bible story with human details. Ghiberti made the viewer part of this casual crowd of holy people. Amazingly, his spacious, three-dimensional scene is made from bronze only a few inches deep.

Ghiberti’s work in perspective would inspire the next generation of painters, who learned to create three-dimensional scenes on a two-dimensional surface.

Meanwhile, Brunelleschi — after losing the Baptistery gig — went to Rome. He studied the Pantheon, and returned to build the awe-inspiring dome crowning the cathedral (or Duomo) of Florence. And Donatello went to work for Ghiberti, learning the skills that would soon revolutionize sculpture. All three of these artists inspired Michelangelo, who built on their work and spread the Florentine Renaissance all across Europe.

And it all began with two bronze panels.

This art moment — a sampling of how we share our love of art in our tours — is an excerpt from the new, full-color coffee-table book “Europe’s Top 100 Masterpieces” by Rick Steves and Gene Openshaw. Please support local businesses in your community by picking up a copy from your favorite bookstore, or you can find it at my online Travel Store. To enhance your art experience, you can find clips related to this artwork at Rick Steves Classroom Europe; just search for Ghiberti.

September 14, 2020

Daily Dose of Europe: Ravenna’s Mosaics

One of Europe’s lesser-known art treasures hides out in the small Italian town of Ravenna: glittering mosaics boasting the beauty of Byzantine civilization.

It’s AD 540. The city of Rome has been looted, Italy is crawling with barbarians, and Rome’s thousand-year empire is crumbling fast. Into this chaotic world comes the emperor of the East — Justinian. In these tranquil mosaics (which he commissioned), he reassured everyone that he was restoring order and stability — that his rule would be a beacon of civilization.

Emperor Justinian — wearing the imperial purple robe and jeweled crown — leads a dignified procession of men into the church. The other mosaic (on the opposite wall) is a mirror image: Empress Theodora leads her entourage of well-dressed women and courtiers.

Justinian is flanked by soldiers (left) and priests (right), demonstrating how he was reuniting the empire both politically and religiously. He carries a golden bowl of Communion wafers, while Theodora has the chalice of wine, as they file in to consecrate their new church. Justinian and his supportive wife had brought peace to Italy and briefly revived the glory of ancient Rome.

But aside from the symbolism, these mosaics give a behind-the-scenes glimpse at these remarkable people. Justinian has his legendary curly hair and round handsome face. At age 43, he married his twenty-something girlfriend, the commoner Theodora — renowned for her beauty and notorious for her checkered past as an actress and prostitute. Despite opposition, Justinian made Theodora his queen and most capable adviser. Theodora gets equal billing with her own mosaic.

In the mosaic, Theodora is joined by her best friend Antonina (right), a fellow actress. Justinian stands alongside his trusty general Belisarius (left), who secured Italy for Justinian. Narses (right) was the palace eunuch who became a ballsy general. The bald guy (labeled “Maximianus”) was the bishop Justinian appointed to enforce the three-gods-in-one Trinity doctrine that most Christians follow to this day.

These high-quality mosaics — made from thousands of tiny chips of gold, glass, and stone the size of your fingernail — capture the majesty of this long-lost world. Justinian wears a stunning robe pinned at the shoulder with a jeweled brooch, and accessorizes with an elaborate diagonal-shaped chest-piece that all the big shots wore. Theodora rocks a gown with a brocaded hem embroidered with the Three Magi. Her head and shoulders drip with rubies, emeralds, and pearls. Both Theodora and Justinian wear something else — halos — marking them as divine rulers, in the same god-on-earth tradition
of Roman emperors that stretched back to Caesar Augustus.

But now Rome was fading, and these flesh-and-blood human beings were crystallizing into icons. Everyone faces forward, with solemn faces and almond eyes making a line across the mosaic. Any sense of a 3-D setting is dissolving into the gold-mosaic background.

Despite Justinian’s efforts, the Roman Empire eventually broke in two and Italy descended into Dark Age chaos. Theodora died young of breast cancer. Justinian retreated to Constantinople (modern Istanbul). For the next thousand years, that eastern half of the Roman Empire — the Byzantine Empire — would be the center of European civilization. And through the dark centuries that followed the collapse of Rome in the West, people could stand in this church — the Basilica of San Vitale in Ravenna — before these glittering mosaics to get a glimpse of the grandeur of what had been…and the glory of what was to come: the Renaissance.

This art moment — a sampling of how we share our love of art in our tours — is an excerpt from the new, full-color coffee-table book, “Europe’s Top 100 Masterpieces,” by Rick Steves and Gene Openshaw. Please support local businesses in your community by picking up a copy from your favorite bookstore, or you can find it at my online Travel Store. To enhance your art experience, you can find a clip related to this artwork at Rick Steves Classroom Europe; just search for Ravenna.

September 10, 2020

Daily Dose of Europe: Civita di Bagnoregio — Italy’s Dead Town

Of all the Italian hill towns, Civita di Bagnoregio was my favorite. But then it died.

Even though we’re not visiting Europe right now, I believe a daily dose of travel dreaming can be good medicine. I recently published a collection of my favorite stories from a lifetime of European travels. My new book is called “For the Love of Europe” — and this is just one of its 100 travel tales.

During 30 years of visits, I watched Civita wither. Its young people left, lured away by the dazzle of the city. Its elderly grew frail and moved into apartments in nearby Bagnoregio. Today, Civita (dubbed “La città che muore“) is being bought up by rich, big-city Italians for their country escapes. And, just like I had a lemonade stand when I was little, their kids sell bruschetta to a steady stream of gawking tourists.

As I enjoy the picture-perfect panorama of Civita from across the canyon, I get nostalgic recalling this precious chip of Italy when it was a traffic-free community with a grow-it-in-the-valley economy.

Civita teeters atop a pinnacle in a vast canyon ruled by wind and erosion. The saddle that once connected Civita to its bigger and busier sister town, Bagnoregio, eroded away, replaced by only a narrow bridge. On my early visits, a man with a donkey ferried the town’s goods up and down this umbilical cord connecting Civita with the rest of Italy. His son inherited the responsibility, doing the same thing, using a Vespa rather than a donkey.

Entering the town through a cut in the rock made by Etruscans 2,500 years ago and heading under a 12th-century Romanesque arch, I feel like I’m walking into history on the smooth, hubcap-sized cobblestones under my feet. This was once the main Etruscan road leading to the Tiber Valley and Rome, just 60 miles to the south, which feel a world away. Those searching for arcade tourism won’t find it here: There are no lists of attractions, orientation tours, or museum hours.

The charms of Civita are subtle. It’s just a lovingly crafted stone shell, a corpse of a town. Yet it’s also an artist’s dream. Each lane and footpath holds a surprise. The warm stone walls glow, and each stairway is dessert to a sketchpad or camera.

The basic grid street plan of the ancient town survives — but its centerpiece, a holy place of worship, rotated with the cultures: first an Etruscan temple, then a Roman temple, and today a church. The round tops of ancient pillars that stand like bar stools in the square once decorated the pre-Christian temple.

I step into the humble church, the heartbeat and pride of the village for centuries. This was where festivals and processions started. Sitting for a cool, quiet moment in a pew, I see faded paintings by students of famous artists, relics of the hometown-boy Saint Bonaventure, and a dried floral decoration spread across the floor.

Just around the corner from the church, on the main street, is Bruschette con Prodotti Locali, Rossana and Antonio’s cool and friendly wine cellar. I pull up a stump and let them serve me panini, bruschetta, fresh white wine, and a cake called ciambella. After eating, I ask to see the cellar with its traditional winemaking gear and provisions for rolling huge kegs up the stairs. Grabbing the stick, I tap on the kegs…thimp, thimp, thomp…to measure their fullness.

The ground below Civita is honeycombed with ancient cellars like this one (for keeping wine at the same temperature all year) and cisterns (for collecting rainwater, since there was no well in town). Many of these date from Etruscan times.

Behind the church, at Antico Frantoio Bruschetteria, an olive press — the latest in a 2,000-year line of olive presses — fills an ancient Etruscan cave. Brothers Sandro and Felice sell bruschetta to visitors. Bread is toasted on an open fire, drizzled with the finest oil, rubbed with garlic, and topped with chopped tomatoes. These edible souvenirs stay on my breath for hours and in my memory forever.

As I walk back to my car to re-enter the modern world, I stop under a lamp on the donkey path and just listen. I listen to the canyon…distant voices…animals on humble farms…fortissimo crickets…the same sounds villagers heard here when their town was still alive.

Do you have any favorite places that have changed greatly over time?

This story appears in my newest book, “For the Love of Europe” — collecting 100 of my favorite memories from a lifetime of European travel. Please support local businesses in your community by picking up a copy from your favorite bookstore, or you can purchase it at my online Travel Store. You can also find clips related to this story at Rick Steves Classroom Europe; just search for Civita.

August 31, 2020

Daily Dose of Europe: The Italian Alps — Lounging in the Dolomites

Some of the best mountain thrills can be found on Italy’s rocky rooftop, the Dolomites. But beyond wildflower meadows and pristine views, the Italian Alps offer a bicultural, bilingual taste of Europe.

Leaning back in my lounge chair, I enjoy the heat of the sun on my skin. A vibrant sea spreads out before me, but it’s a sea of wildflowers. I’m not at the beach, I’m on a farm, looking out on Europe’s largest high alpine meadow, manicured by munching goats and cows. In the distance, stark snow-dusted peaks tower boldly against the blue sky. These are Italy’s Alps, the Dolomites.

My soundtrack is the happy laughter of Italian children enjoying a petting zoo filled with alpine critters. A few yards away, their parents sip wine on the veranda of their chalet guesthouse — thoroughly enjoying that “dolce far niente” (sweetness of doing nothing)…like me.

The sky-high meadow called the Alpe di Siusi (or “Seiser Alm” in German) seems to float high above the city of Bolzano, separating two of the most famous Dolomite ski-resort valleys, Val di Fassa and Val Gardena. Measuring three miles by seven miles, and soaring 6,500 feet high, Alpe di Siusi is dotted with farm huts and happy hikers enjoying gentle trails. These mountains differ from the rest of the Alps because of their dominant rock type — limestone — which forms sheer vertical walls of white, gray, and pale pink rising abruptly from green valleys and meadows.

At the head of the meadow, the Sasso Lungo mountains provide a storybook Dolomite backdrop. And opposite, the bold, spooky Mt. Schlern stands gazing into the haze of the Italian peninsula. Not surprisingly, the Schlern gave ancient peoples enough willies to spawn legends of supernatural forces. Fear of the Schlern witch, today’s tourist-brochure mascot, was the cause of many a medieval townswoman’s fiery death.

As a nature preserve, the alpine meadow cradled by the peaks is virtually car-free. A cable car whisks visitors up to the park from the valley below. Within the park, buses shuttle hikers to and from key points along the tiny road all the way to the foot of the picturesque Sasso peaks. Meadow walks are ideal for wildflower strolls, while chairlifts serve as springboards for more dramatic and demanding hikes. Mountain bikes are easy to rent, welcome on many lifts, and permitted on the meadow’s country lanes.

The Alpe di Siusi is my favorite stop in the Dolomites because of its quintessential views, but also its easy accessibility and the variety of walks and hikes. There’s also the charm of the neighboring village of Castelrotto (population: 2,000), which I use as my home base.

Castelrotto is also a fun dollop of Germanic culture in Italy: There’s yogurt and yodeling for breakfast…wiener schnitzel and strudel for dinner. The region has long faced north, first as part of the Holy Roman Empire and then firmly in the Austrian Habsburg realm. After Austria lost World War I, its “Südtirol” (South Tirol) became Italy’s “Alto Adige.” Mussolini did what he could to Italianize the region, including giving each town an Italian name (like Castelrotto, also known as Kastelruth).

This hard-fought history has left this northeastern corner of Italy bicultural as well as bilingual. Signs and literature in the autonomous province are in both languages, but there’s an emphasis on der Deutsch. It still feels Austrian, culturally as much as geographically. Germanic color survives in a blue-aproned, ruddy-faced, lederhosen-wearing way. Most locals still speak German first and many feel a closer bond with their Germanic ancestors than with their Italian countrymen. While most have a working knowledge of Italian, they watch German-language TV, read newspapers auf Deutsch, and live in Tirolean-looking villages. The government has wooed cranky German-speaking locals with economic breaks that make this one of Italy’s richest areas.

I love coming home to Castelrotto after a hike in the meadow. It was built for farmers rather than skiers, so it has more character than any town around. Popping into the church, I enjoy the choir practicing. Then, stepping outside the church at 3 p.m., the bells peal as I witness the happy parade of parents bringing home their preschoolers. These idyllic moments may seem like cultural clichés, but they’re authentic, not performances for tourists. It’s moments like these that make it easy to enjoy this high-altitude Germanic eddy in the whirlpool of Italy.

August 9, 2020August 10, 2020

Daily Dose of Europe: Romantic Italy — Amalfi Coast and the Isle of Capri

Few places in Europe have the over-the-top romance of Italy’s Amalfi Coast. When international travel opens back up, I’ll be heading right back to Europe for a romantic break…and that’s where you’ll find me.

Even though we’re not visiting Europe right now, I believe a daily dose of travel dreaming can be good medicine. I just published a collection of my favorite stories from a lifetime of European travels. My new book is called “For the Love of Europe” — and this story is just one of its 100 travel tales.

Along the heights of the Amalfi Coast, every inch is terraced, connected by steep stony staircases that tempt visitors with twinkling but treacherous Mediterranean views. Climbing through terraced orchards of lemon trees, I’m hot and thirsty, fantasizing about fresh-squeezed lemonade.

And then, just like the fairy tale, I come upon the daughter of a farmer who seems to be waiting for a lost and parched American traveler. She welcomes me to her terrace to join her for a little slicing and squeezing. Then, as if teaching me a very important life skill, she demonstrates how you halve your lemon, stab it with a knife, and then — cupping the fruit with one hand — you wiggle the knife with the other, and watch the juice fill your glass. She adds lots of sugar, gives it a good stir, and hands me a glass of lemonade I’ll never forget. As I drink, she quizzes me about my journey. It’s one of those moments you travel for.

I’m staying in Sorrento, a town wedged on a ledge between the mountains and the sea. An hour south of wild and crazy Naples, Sorrento feels like its opposite: calm and genteel.

Crowding onto the early bus for the ride along the Amalfi Coast, I sit on the right, primed for the big coastal views and bracing myself for one of Italy’s great thrill rides. The trip gives me respect for the engineers who built the road — and even more respect for the bus drivers who drive it. Maybe I’m just hyperventilating, but I’m struck by how the Mediterranean, a sheer 500-foot drop below, twinkles. Cantilevered garages, hotels, and villas cling to the vertical terrain. Exotic sandy coves tease from far below, out of reach. Traffic is so heavy that in the summer, locals are only allowed to drive only every other day — even-numbered license plates one day, odd the next. Buses and tourists foolish enough to drive here are exempt from this system.

My first stop, the town of Positano, hangs halfway between Sorrento and Amalfi town on the most spectacular stretch of coastline. Most of the Amalfi Coast towns are pretty but touristy, congested, overpriced, and an exhausting daily hike from their tiny beaches. Specializing in scenery and sand, Positano is no exception. A three-star sight from a distance, Positano is a pleasant if pricey gathering of women’s clothing stores and cafés, with an inviting beach. There’s little to do here other than eat, shop, and enjoy the beach and views…and for most visitors, that’s just fine.

For lunch, rather than paying resort prices in a restaurant, I find a rosticceria — a deli selling roasted meats and antipasti. Using one of my handier Italian phrases, I request my food “da portare via” (“for the road”), then take my meal down to the pebbly beach. Grabbing a nice perch, I munch while watching the scene as it unfolds. Colorful umbrellas fill the beach while boats shuttle visitors in and out. Young Romeos — inspired by the older boys working the beach — polish their girl-hustling craft. I ponder what to do the next day, though, for many, the choice seems obvious — repeat and enjoy.

Early the next morning, riding the 30-minute ferry from Sorrento, I head for the enchanting isle of Capri. I think of the rich and famous who’ve headed to the same island over the centuries. Capri was the vacation hideaway of Roman emperors and centuries later became a favorite stop for Romantic Age aristocrats on their Grand Tour of Europe. Later, it was the safe haven of Europe’s gay cultural elite — back when being openly gay often meant being dead.

Today, Capri is expensive and glitzy — and a world-class tourist trap. Landing on the island, I’m met with a greedy line of white convertible taxis, eager to sweep me away. Zigzagging up the cliff with the top down, I think that despite its crowds and commercialism, Capri is still flat-out gorgeous. Chalky white limestone cliffs rocket boldly from the shimmering blue and green surf. Strategically positioned gardens, villas, and viewpoints provide stunning vistas of the Sorrentine peninsula, Amalfi Coast, and Mt. Vesuvius.

To give my Capri visit an extra dimension, I take the scenic boat trip around the island. It’s cheap and comes with good narration. Riding through the pounding waves, I work on my sunburn as we circle the island, marveling at a nonstop parade of staggering cliffs and listening to stories of celebrity-owned villas. There are also some quirky sights: a solar-powered lighthouse, statues atop desolate rocks, and caves in the cliffs with legends reaching back to the time of Emperor Tiberius.

The last stop is the highlight: the fabled Blue Grotto, with its otherworldly azure water. At the mouth of the grotto, a covey of dinghies jockeys to pick up arriving tourists, who need to disembark from their larger transports. The grotto’s entrance hole is small, so only these little rowboats can fit through. If the tide’s too high or the chop too rough, dinghies can’t get in, and visitors are turned back. Nervous that the waves will close it down, I gingerly climb into my dinghy and my raffish rower jostles his way to the tiny entry. He knows enough English to explain to me that if I don’t scrunch down below the gunwales, I’ll smash my skull on the rock and, as I’ve already paid, that was no concern of his. (I think this is intended as a joke.) Taking a moment to feel the rhythm of the swells and anticipating the instant when the dinghy reaches the low point, he pulls hard and fast on the old chain, and we squeeze — like birthing in reverse — into the grotto.

Inside, it takes my eyes a moment to adjust to the brilliant blue of the cave’s water (an effect caused by sun reflecting off the limestone at the bottom). As my man rows me around, singing a little “O Sole Mio,” I enjoy the iridescent magic of the moment.

Beaches, boutiques, blue grottos, and fresh-squeezed lemonade — it all combines to make clear why, for centuries, holiday-goers have chosen this corner of Italy to make their Mediterranean travel dreams come true.